I guess things were always quietAround Putnam CountyKind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirtsOf the 2-lane, that was stretched out like anAsphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers wouldHunker down in bib jeans and store bought bootsLyin' about their lives and the places that they'd beenSuckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days WorkThey's be suckin' on Coca ColasAnd be spittin' Day's WorkUntil the moon was a stray dog on the ridge andThe taverns would be swollen until the naked eyeOf two a.m., and the Stratocaster guitars slung overBurgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legsJacknifed over naugahyde stools and theWitch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,The pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulgeAnd the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyesWearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder,Smells so sweetI elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelingsOver mixed drinksAnd Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hallConcentration as they knit their brows toCover the entire Hank Williams Song BookAnd the old National register was singing to theTune of $57.57Until last call, one last game of 8 ballAnd Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,Someone come in say "Hey man, anyone gotAny Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?"And all the studs in town would toss 'em downAnd claim to fame as they stomped their feetBoasting about being able to get more assThan a toilet seat.And the GMCs and the Straight 8 FordsWere coughing and wheezing and theyPerculated as they tossed the gravelUnderneath the fenders to weave homeA wet slick anaconda of a two laneWith tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'With a tool box and a pony saddleYou're grinding gears, shifting into firstYea and that goddam tranny's just getting worseWith the melodies of "see ya later"And screwdrivers on carburettorsTalkin' shop about money to loanAnd palominos and strawberry roansSee ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.Money to borrow and goodnight kissesThe radio spittin' out Charlie RichSure can sing that sonofabitchAnd you weave home, weavin' homeLeaving the little joint winking in theDark warm narcotic American nightBeneath a pin cushion sky and it'sHome to toast and honey, startUp the Ford, your lunch money's there on theDraining board, toilet's runnin' shake theHandle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs RandalWhere the hell are my goddam sandalsAnd the porcelain poodles and the glass swansStaring down from the knick knack shelfWith the parent permission slips for theKids' field tripsPair of Muckalucks scraping acrossThe shag carpetAnd the impending squint ofFirst light, that lurked behindA weeping marquee in downtown PutnamAnd would be pullin' up any minute nowJust like a bastard amberVelveeta yellow cab on a rainy cornerAnd be blowin' its horn, in every windowIn town.